Pianos, Prussians, and Thunderstorms
by Aleberle
Summary: A particularly stormy night in Vienna leaves much to be desired, especially when it means your lifelong enemy showing up while you're living your worst nightmare. (Rated "T" just to be safe.)


**Hello! This is my first FanFiction ever, so it's no Shakespeare, but I would very much appreciate any feedback you might have for me! Though, if you don't find, please try to keep the criticism constructive, that's what will really help me improve my writing and publish better products if I decide to write any other FanFiction. Also, just in case you couldn't tell, this is intended to support PruAus, the romantic pairing of Prussia and Austria, though you may view it however you want, if you can really stretch it enough to be platonic or just brotherly or whatever you do, so if that's not something you want to read, I'm sure there are much better FanFictions written by much more experienced and capable authors than myself that focus on your favorite pairings, or don't focus on any at all, so then we can all be happy! Don't spend your time on this if you know you don't want to. ;) Oh, and there are a few words in German, so if you don't know what they mean, their translation is just above the A/N. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!**

Thunder boomed outside the dark house, providing the heavy rain with a threatening aura.

The water poured from the sky heavily and hit the streets below with a crashing noise that multiplied with each drop. Throughout the storming city the droplets of water fell onto the rooftops of the elegant houses below, never stopping for the people inside. One particular house stood tall, its majesty challenged by no other. The ancient brick became tainted a darker color as water soaked its exterior walls and dripped off it uselessly. Inside the house came the warm glow of candlelight, shining through the windows and providing a small lantern to those lost on the streets.

That was what the house had always been. It had stood tall for many centuries, guarding the people of its city. Over the many years that had gone by, it had remained unchanged. Wars came and went, poverty struck, disease broke and spread, and still the building stood tall. More than anything, what provided comfort to the city more than all else was the music. The soft sound overflowed from the windows, the very soul of the city heard to all those who stopped to listen. In times of oppression, the music became angry and somehow conveyed a deep struggle for freedom with each pluck of a string or tap of a key. In times of peace, when any and all fear was calmed by the blossoms on the trees, the music was happy. It was soft and peaceful and was carried through the wind like the petals of a flower captured in the breeze. On some days people would come and sit by the old house just to hear the man inside pour his heart out through what little means he had left to do so. There were some who came every day to hear him. The music was often the only source of freedom that people could find. When the night grew dark and tyrants ran the streets, the music played on, never ceasing no matter the circumstances. On some days it was all the city had left, the music and the old house. No one could remember when it started, some even said the music had been coming from the house for as long as the city itself had stood.

Through the rain that grew ever harder as the night grew older, the music came and did not cease. Little could be heard from outside, but the silhouette of a man in the bright candlelight showed what ceased to be heard. No one had ever seen his face, for sight of him was unnecessary. The people of the city knew his soul inside and out. It poured from the window each day and every night. On some days he did nothing else. He would stand by the window or sit at the piano and play his heart to city, rarely eat, barely sleep, aside from when he passed out. It was almost as though he was owned heart, mind, and soul by the city and lived to feed it with music. People often wondered if he would one day pass away from his age or the unhealthy hours he spent playing, but he never did. So the people grew to forget the idea. No one ever went in or out of the old house and no other forms of life could be detected inside, so it was unlikely that another person lived inside to play for him when he could not. The people of the city would have noticed. He was an old friend to the cold streets and the people who walked them, always familiar even though no one had seen his face or heard his voice. He loved the city and he loved its people. Everything that touched the city to become part of it became part of his heart, and he soon became part of the hearts of all that could hear him.

What he did not like, however, were the thunderstorms. When the thunder roared and lightning struck the city, his music became fearful. There was not a soul in the city who was oblivious to it. It was in those moments that he revealed himself. He showed the whole world that he was vulnerable. There was this understanding between his music and himself, an understanding that shone brightly when he played. When those moments came, the people could tell that he was no longer showcasing his emotion through music, but rather, he was desperately clinging onto it as a source of comfort. He played faster and more desperately, holding the violin closer to his chest or leaning his head in closer to the piano as if to cry out ' _Help me!'_ to the only source of comfort he knew. During the day's clear skies, the people played with him and became part of him, but as the first thunder roared, he broke away. Suddenly he was alone. It was him and his music and nothing else but the storm that never ceased to swallow him entirely. He played quickly on his instruments the way a child would cling to a parent to keep themselves safe. His music was what he turned to in his hour of need, though it would often times do little to soothe him. It could not cradle him or provide a loving touch as a person could, but he had little else and so he loved it with all his heart, no matter how many times it abandoned him. Living in fear and loneliness did little to stir him, the largest reaction anyone had ever seen was him being drawn away from the instruments. On these rare occasions his silhouette would leave the room for the remainder of the night, only to be returned by the morning light.

On this particular night, his music became an even clearer window into his mind. The storm was in itself bad. The rain was harsher than it had been in many years, and the thunder more ferocious. Rain was far from uncommon in the area, but storms at all were rarities, and this one was far from an ordinary storm. The city would likely be pooled in water by morning, several trees struck down and buildings damaged. The music might as well have been nonexistent. Even inside the building, the music failed to reach an impressive volume through the noise of the outside world. Each note quickened and became rushed, the sound produced no longer music but emotion itself. The large instrument spat out fear that quickly dissolved into panic with each new sound. A new feeling was woven into each note, a new thought. The music became a window into his mind, screaming everything he could never dare to say to the streets below. Not only the fearful panic, but the loneliness, the misery, the neverending pain, the desperation for someone, _anyone_ , to come to him and offer him an escape from his torment.

Inside the window, the man desperately pounded at the keys. Beads of sweat trailed down his pale skin, not only from the vast amount of effort he put into his neverending playing. He breathed in short, pained breaths, trying to ignore how stuffy and claustrophobic the room felt, despite its vast size. He _needed_ to play. It could save him from the storm, it was the only thing that could. But why wasn't it working? Why on _earth_ wasn't it working? His fingers flew over the keys, slamming themselves down on each one. Each time they moved faster. They kept moving faster, violently attempting to keep up with the rain. Each raindrop pounded into the man's head as it hit the streets. _His_ streets. They were his streets and yet he was scared of them. Scared of being on them because he couldn't handle it, not now. He couldn't seem to handle anything anymore. He couldn't handle the wars that left him shattered and broken, he couldn't handle the endless death that draped over him like a wet blanket, he couldn't handle the constant pain that always seemed to surround him, whether it was physical or nonphysical. He couldn't handle _anything_.

After all those years of looking down on them, everyone was right. He was too fragile for the world. Too weak. No matter how hard he tried to hide it behind wealth and a disgusted exterior, there wasn't a way to ignore the truth. He couldn't ignore how a mere thunderstorm had him quivering in his seat on the verge of tears.

There was just something about the noise that struck him and the light that flashed through the city like a giant monster he could never escape. Thunder boomed once more, now getting worse than before. He choked back a cry and shut his eyes tightly, trying to block out the fear. Even without his eyes' guidance his fingers met the keys, likely doing them damage with the unnecessary amount of force he applied. ' _Schwach. Just play the piano.'_ The words echoed in his mind as they always did when the storms came, pathetically attempting and failing to calm him. ' _Just keep playing and you'll be fine. It's a stupid thunderstorm, and you're a nation. Do you want to look weaker than you already do? Any other nation could handle this. Even Feliciano is less of a coward than you. Idiot.'_ His delicate eyes slowly opened, though only a crack at first, and he focused his mind on the piano, replaying the words over and over in his mind.

' _Schwach. Schwachling. Du bist ein Schwachling. Schwachling. Schwach. Schwach. Schwa-'_

His thought was interrupted as a bolt of lightning struck outside his window, so close that he would have certainly been struck if his house were a few feet the wrong direction. He immediately yelled out in fear, his hands off of the piano, shaking horribly. The music came to an abrupt stop and vicious silence filled the room. For the first time in what had to be many years, the fight to hold back tears seemed so pointless. A losing battle he had no reason to fight. His hands floated a few feet away from the piano, trembling like an earthquake had struck his body. He bit his lip, taking a moment to try to regain control.

With shaking hands, he again reached for the keys. The ivory he rested his fingers on suddenly seemed untrustworthy. Like they were betraying him in a way that was right in front of his eyes, yet he couldn't see. A choked sob escaped him and his eyes screwed tight behind his rimless glasses. Another clap of thunder sounded and he lost all control, no longer caring for his dignity or pride, and shrieked, the sharp sound piercing his ears like knives. Without a moment of hesitation, he slammed the piano lid shut and jumped away from the now silent piece of furniture. Short breaths filled the room. His hot breath quickly coated the air in front of him as it fled from his ajar mouth.

The nearest window lit up in a bright flash as lightning struck, this time more distant. and fled the room. He ran, faster than he had in a painfully long time, and flung open the door to a room at the end of the hallway. He had no idea which, but it was a door. No matter where it led to, it offered a place of refuge. He ran inside, slamming the door behind him and found his way to the large queen sized bed that lied in the center of the room. Panic dropped him to his knees and crawled him underneath it. The darkness that usually offered comfort felt terrifying under the circumstances, but his fear kept him glued to the floor. The floor was good. The floor was farther away from the dark clouds that threw electricity down at him in a violent rampage. Even so, it was miserable. The small space was horribly dank and cramped. If he had any other option he wouldn't have been there at all. If he wasn't so scared he wouldn't have been there.

Another flash of lightning lit up the room, drawing a squeak from the man and sending him curled into a ball, praying that the storm would be over soon.

Heavy rain poured onto the windshield of the German-made car that drove through the familiar Viennese streets. The weak windshield wipers desperately attempted to push aside the rain, only succeeded in providing a quick glimpse of the dark streets that lasted little shorter than a second every time they were shoved across the soaking window.

After deciding that he'd had enough of sitting through hours upon hours of sexual tension between his bruder and the strange Italian he was always around, the great nation of Prussia decided that he wanted to bother his favorite Austrian aristocrat.

The storm that surrounded the small vehicle was unusually violent, and would've been enough to unnerve the man if he were anyone else. His eyes darted from the stormclouds to the cold stone roads, both dark and hard to see through the rain. For a nation without an empire or any exceeding amount of power, there wasn't an enormous amount the aristocrat could do, but what he was good at was having terrible weather. It seemed that he'd had nothing but thunderstorms for a almost a week straight. Prussia, the personification of Prussia, couldn't help but point out the irony in such weather, as Austria had always despised the rain, as well as most unfortunate weather in general. As soon as Christmas began to roll around, he began his annual three-month-long hissy fit over the unavoidable amount of snow he was sure to receive. "Geez," he muttered to himself. "I can't believe Roddy's making the awesome me drive through this stupid storm." Though he knew that he would do little more than complain about the unfortunate weather.

The raging storm limited the silver haired man's already mediocre vision, but he knew his way to the place very well, as he had both driven and walked to it countless days out of sheer boredom. Not to mention, it certainly didn't hurt that the prissy Austrian lived in the oldest and largest building in the whole city. Everyone else in the city had rebuilt their houses to fit the modern era, but of course Austria wanted to "preserve the city's charm". Both of the two nations knew well this was an excuse to save him from the costs of redesigning.

Overhead, lightning crashed and thunder boomed, illuminating the sky with blinding light and deafening noise to accompany it. Prussia frowned, noting that they were awfully close, just short of being too close to be considered safe. As stuck up and prissy as the aristocrat was, Prussia did care for him. He was his rival of many years and, arguably, his best friend. He enjoyed spending time with him and hearing his music, not that he would ever breathe a word of that to anyone, as well as stealing his food. As much as he made fun of the younger man for baking so much, he was excellent at it, the very idea of the scent of one of his pastries was enough to make even the most finicky eater drool like a one of Germany's dogs. As strong as he was, especially when it came to pointless arguments over a certain albino's ridiculous behavior, sometimes he couldn't help but feel like a raindrop would be enough to shatter the frail nation. He was very delicate, after all, especially when he was in those pointless periods of ignoring his decaying health and ceasing to for the sake of his music, as confusing as that was. Some days it seemed that the bespectacled man simply didn't care what happened to himself.

After a little under ten minutes had gone by, the Prussian found himself pulled up next to the ancient house. With considerable effort, he managed to make it out of the car and up the steps to the door, no thanks to the heaving wind, which would have been the only place saved from the rain thanks to the roof that hung over it if the strong winds hadn't blown the rain every possible direction. The wind was unbearably freezing and strong enough to push him back on its own, and the rain certainly did not help. The frigid temperatures sent a shiver down his spine, allowing him to count himself lucky for the coat he wore. Thunder roared loudly, causing him to stop and turn to look at the sky. The clouds were menacing, all viciously dark save for the occasional flash of lightning. The lightning was even closer, judging from the short time gap between the lightning and thunder. Prussia knew well that the stone from which he stood was undoubtedly the storm center. Under no other circumstances would it be this bad and the lightning so close. Prussia frowned, but turned to the wooden door in front of him and without hesitation opened it with spare key he had stolen from the very Austrian he had come to see, it had grown irking to have to break into the house every time he came by for a visit, so of course it wasn't long before he simply located the extra keys and swiped them from their residence, pushing himself inside and shoving the door closed behind him, which revealed itself to be a more tedious task than expected with the continuously growing wind.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Prussia breathed a sigh of relief. The halls were considerably warmer than the storm outside, though still needlessly chilly despite the man's poetic love of lighting the rooms with candles when it grew dark. He made a mental note to tell the aristocrat to get some proper heating, knowing that under normal circumstances the house's temperature would have chilled him to the bone. How and why the Austrian had chosen to live like that went far over his head. It was most likely some stupid aristocrat thing that he would never understand. His thoughts reminded him of the house's resident, and he scanned the areas his eyes could reach for the man. It was not surprising when he was quickly made aware that Austria was nowhere to be found. It would have come as a greater surprise if he was actually outside of his music room for once. "Roddy!" He screeched, making sure his presence did not go unnoticed. "The awesome me is here!" No sound. That came as little surprise as well. More often than not, he would usually only receive an irritated sigh as a response to his loud and distracting entrance. It was usually a clear indication that the man was upstairs and did not feel like yelling, or dealing with his elder for that matter, so of course, that was exactly where the man headed.

The wooden stairs creaked and groaned underneath his heavy footsteps, screaming at Prussia to treat them with the kind of delicacy they were used to. Probably his least favorite thing about coming to the house was how ridiculously steep the staircase was. It might as well have just been a wall. He wouldn't have noticed a huge change. "Roddy!" he called again. "Your stairs are _so_ not awesome!" Nothing. A large smirk crept across his face. So, Austria was playing hide-and-go-seek, now, was he? Perfectly fine, he would just have to go and find his Austrian princess.

Naturally, he started with the obvious. He immediately crept to large room where the sleek grand piano lay, eyes gleaming with mischief. It wasn't too far. It was at the final floor of the house, but it was the closest room to the staircase.

His footsteps quieted as he slipped into the room, holding back one of his famous laughs at the thought of scaring Austria. Maybe even enough to get a terrified little squeak out of him. However, when he caught sight of the piano in the center of the room, the musician was still nowhere to be found. Prussia's smirk faded into a mildly confused frown. Despite his earlier excitement, it wasn't like Austria to hide like this. It was unlikely that he would have gone to another room with how he had begun to act over the years. He had barely left the room save when he left for world meetings and there wasn't anywhere in the open room for him to hide. So where was he? Pushing aside his momentary pause of confusion, the albino regained his old smirk. If Austria was still hiding then he would simply have to find him. He was awesome, after all. He took a final glance around the empty room before turning away and slipping out.

The hallways were long and dark, only a few having any lighting at all and those were lit by dim candlelight. Several wiks had been burned down to pools of hardened liquid what could have been hours ago, and many others were on their way, their small glow of light dulled and fading. There was little to fear inside the enormous building, yet even so, the walls spread an eerie feeling in their darkness. The air inside the building was dank and unfriendly, only adding to the atmosphere provided by the menacing weather and miserable lighting. The only sounds which existed were the storm berating the house with its ferocity and his boots against the hardwood floors. Each doorway he passed provided not a single sound that had not already been heard, giving no indication of a form of life inside.

A door was only passed after he had snuck into the room attached to it and searched it thoroughly. All the rooms seemed similar, built on wooden floors polished to a shine, cased in by walls of brick carefully painted over, dressed up with decor from centuries previous, air so musky the room felt like an ancient tomb left untouched, as if no one had been inside for a long time. Most noticeable was the rooms' lack of life.

Layers of dust coated the surface of desks, chests, chairs, beds, and other furniture of that likelihood. It started out small. The first few rooms hardly had enough for it to be visible at all. But the farther he wandered, the more dust covered the furniture and the more furniture covered by dust. They all felt dead. Not that they were ever alive, but they felt like they were things left over from a tragedy years past. Like they were had been there when the world was happy and free. Like they had been used and cherished until the happiness and the freedom died. It was like something had been lost forever without anyone even realizing it. People changed with time and moved on, but the objects left behind stood still in their place for someone to find them and see what used to be.

It was hard to explain it, but it just felt painful to be inside them. Every time he exited one he unconsciously breathed a sigh of relief, a small feeling of dread left in the back of his mind at entering another as he moved on to the next one.

There was little to no chance that Austria had gone outside in his current state. Not to say that he ever would have, but it was as though he had become part of his piano, nothing more than a soulless piece of machinery, capable only of providing music to the listening ears that thrived by it. People only ever saw him at world meetings, the only time when he was required to leave his precious music, and even then they said that he wasn't there, and he wasn't. While his physical body would sit his his assigned position next to the rest of the nations, his mind was at the piano, tapping out a sweet melody for the streets of Vienna. Save for that, he never left, and certainly would not leave in this weather.

Austria was indeed prideful, but he was smart enough to be aware of his faults. He knew well that he often found himself lost during the brightest parts of the day when the sun's rays streaked down onto the pastures and provided the entire land with a comforting warmth, and he knew this was only more likely when the sky was at its darkest peak and the pathways drenched in heavy rain. If he was not inside, it would be near impossible to find him.

When at last only a few rooms remained untouched, the Prussian bit his lip. In all honesty, even he couldn't be sure whether this was a gesture of annoyance or concern. There was a worryingly slim chance that the musician would be in any of the rooms at the end of the final hallway. They had been empty for so long, even Austria himself wasn't sure when anyone had last been in them. But if he wasn't in any of them, it would mean he was outside.

Outside where he would never be able to find his way back and no one would be able to find him at least until morning, by which time he would be sick at the very least. Outside where he could be lost inside the twisting alleyways of the bad parts of town for days on end.

Austria wasn't like the other nations. He was more fragile than many of his people. He needed someone to take care of him. He would never admit to it, but that was the truth. He was strong, stronger than anyone Prussia had met in a long time. Maybe not physically, maybe he couldn't fight well enough to save himself from a fly. But few could match his will. No matter how much he was hurt, no matter how badly he was beaten, he always got up, threw more dignified, snarky, prissy, utterly _aggravating_ remarks than was wise, and walked the long road home.

Even so, he would still come home with damage that needed healing, pride that needed to be restored, and scars that would never quite heal. Even so, he would get lost in the streets every time he dared try to enjoy his own country. Even so, he would constantly put his health in decline in exchange for his work and music. Even so, he needed someone be there next to him.

Prussia shook his head without saying a word and walked onwards, a new determination on his face. The next room came like the last. Empty. Untouched. So did the three after that. Then two more after that.

That left him with two rooms at the end of the dark hallway. He sucked in a mouthful of air and walked towards the one farthest from himself. There was no reason to go to that particular door before its brother. It just felt … right. There wasn't any harm it could do, either.

The door was likely one of the least cared for in the house. The wood was splintered and cracked, the paint peeling off in ugly sheets. The once golden doorknob had dulled to a faded brown. Cracks and scratches coated the small object, adding to its tarnished appearance. The entire door looked like it would collapse into a pile of shavings if it were touched too roughly.

Cautiously, Prussia stepped over to beaten door. His hand slipped around the doorknob. It was rough and the cracks were easily recognizable even without looking. However ruined it was, it fit well into the aged nation's hand, prompting his fingers to curl around it. The metal was welcoming in its frigidness, despite how cold the rest of the house was. It was not smooth in the slightest, yet it felt enough so.

In the seconds before he began the process of opening the door, something somber pushed its way into the corner of his eye, stopping him in his tracks. His eyes were pulled upwards to where the thing lied at the edge of the frame.

The door was open. Not by much. It was hardly enough to be noticeable, but all the same, it stood there, hanging ever-so-slightly ajar. Almost like someone had been there before. They'd been in the room, but something stopped them from closing it all the way. Maybe they didn't care, maybe they were in a hurry, but no matter the reason, the door failed to have been closed properly. Prussia dragged his eyes along the doorway, at last taking in the murky light seeping from should not have been. He muttered a curse under his breath, aggravated by his lack of observation.

Whether his crowded mind allowed to acknowledge it or not, his attention was drawn back to the mutilated metal sphere inside his grasp. Slowly, he began to turn it, his mind and body struggling in a battle between foresight and haste. It creaked and hissed horribly at the moment it was moved, like a reminder of aged weakness. The sound was unearthly, like it was never meant to exist in the mortal world. It wasn't exceedingly loud, but it was ear-piercing. Like a dog whistle to his ears, it was just high enough to be painful, but low enough to be heard. To describe it best, it sounded like the small voice of a child crying somewhere in the shadows of uncertainty. Crying and sobbing until at last the thing reached the end of its purpose and allowed the door to be opened.

With a defeated groan, the door gave in and fell into the room after a reasonable push from the broad shouldered Prussian who hovered in the desolate hallways.

It was little surprise that the room was somber as the winding corridors that lead up to it, but where the maze of burnt out candles remained rayless, a quivering amount of moonlight danced across the floor, creating a small haven of soft light among the ominous bombshells of electricity that surged through the room at the invitation of the sizeable windows. Dust and cobwebs flickered in their strengthened visibility, having grown over many years onto all manner of objects in sight's length.

Not moments after entering the room would one be made aware of a chestnut bookshelf that had once been chic and modern standing proudly against the far wall of decaying wallpaper. Books well over a number easily recognized by the human eye lined the shelves. While once illuminating colors and coated with exquisite threadwork, they hid in a swamp of murky gray. Though they were most likely sheer beauty in itself, the words coating the collection of aged spines were hidden behind veils of skin cells, dust mites along with their deconstructed meals, and clothing fibers.

Across from the bookshelf, a discarded trunk lay slumped against the wall. A lock that was once an elegant completion to a noble utility had been demolished under the weight of the wooden lid, which hung at an unnatural angle, pressing into what remained of the rusted metal. The body of the object was carved from quercus cerris and lined with vulcanized leather around its edges, allowing Prussia to take a quick mental note that the trunk was most likely built around the eighteenth century.

Boxes of unexaminable age lied in chaotic stacks around the room, several lying awkwardly, their remains fallen like lifeless corpses across the ruined hardwood. Their condition varied greatly from one to another, some having their true years of use betrayed only by the dust that piled onto them like snow, while others were shambles held together by strings and masking tape.

Most noticeable, however, stood in the center of the room. Should one follow the trail of the beacon from the glass that was at scale large enough to fill almost the entirety of wall, one's eyes would rest upon a generously sized bed, aglow in the light of the nature that encased it. Framed with fine wood, it carried an auburn pigmentation through its years of abandonment, only emphasizing the impressive craftsmanship of its structure. Delicately lining the wood was a series of numerous fabric creations, most lined with some manner of lace or another such fine decoration. Each was especially individual from the last, whether it stood out by rich color or bland color, being intricate or plain, or was meant as a decoration or was meant for pleasurable useage. For whatever the reason, it was an alluring object. Like a north magnet to Prussia's south.

Stiffly, he thrust his left leg into the room, keeping its descent tedious as he was more than aware by then of the impressive array of noises made by his old rival's flooring.

A sound. But only the floor, silenced by the sheets of water outside. Prussia craned his head to the left, then to the right, only to be reminded of what he had already seen. Only to be reminded of what he had not seen. A few more steps. Then another cautious one. After that it was all out. The usually unignorable sound of Prussian boots against the floors was subdued to such an extent that he almost retraced his steps to make sure he really was wandering across the room. But he knew he was, for it was not long at all before he found himself standing inches away from the very object he had stared at not even minutes earlier.

Extravagance was by no means the only thing separating the bed from the rest of the room's contents. The dust previously laid on the bed sheets twirled and danced in the trapped air, leaping at its first chance at freedom in what was more than likely years. The freshly cleaned bed ware lied pushed away just so, moved by someone's presence in their blunderous haste.

Prussia's face tightened, not out of cowardice or any sort of sudden malice, more out of the kind of instinctive sense of responsibility a commander gets when left alone on a warfield to take charge. Only this wasn't a warfield. This was a dead nation facing a bed under which one of the few living beings that still cared about him may or may not have lied. The emotion, the protectiveness, the sense of obligation, the unshakable unease, however. That was real.

His mind screamed for his body to move like the wind in the storm outside, yet he was not so quick to oblige. Instead, his descent to his knees was gradual, almost as if he were living inside camera footage of the event played in slow motion.

Covered kneecaps made contact with an icy surface and legs relaxed underneath the weight of a stiff body. A calloused hand shortened already brief distance until its fingers took hold of satiny cloth. Without enough effort to be considered valid, the material was swiftly pulled aside.

Prussia's breath came to a sudden halt, his eyes showcasing their roundness to a further degree. Though the space existing between the bed and the floor was darker than the glacial waters of winter, trapped under thick ice and a sky depending on moonlight, a single shape was visible to even the blindest of eyes.

The outline of a man, forged into a strained ball and shaking like a child, stood out from the dusk, making its presence known, however unintentional. His face burrowed into his arms, which, even from the distance and lighting, had become white due to the intensity of their grip around the aristocrat's head, like impenetrable guardsmen, only they too, trembled. They held their place well, allowing nothing to escape from their protection but a few meek whimpers. _Whimpers_. The very idea of such a thing was so foreign in the albino's mind. Never in his life had he heard his former rival make a sound so … _defeated_. Neither so vanquished, so disheartened, nor so scared.

Prussia's mouth opened partially, though no words came out, and crimson eyes swam with sorrow as a sharp pang of sympathy stung him like an enraged wasp. The lack of air in the cramped space did no wonders to his ability to breathe and left him taking quick, hushed breaths that could easily have been mistaken for him panting. He pulled himself over to the quaking lump, awarding himself with an impressive exhale. The sound of his deep intake of air went seemingly unheard by the other man, or if it did not, he certainly took no time to make a show of it. Prussia snuck his arms around his friend, then proceed to heave him and himself out.

It was by no means attractive. Instead, it consisted of a series of squirming backwards, releasing Austria, reinforcing his hold on him, and breaks, during which he panted like a diseased old man who had attempted to sprint a marathon. It did, however, get both Prussia and Austria out from underneath the rickety piece of furniture. At the very moment he did so, Prussia swallowed at least half of the air in the entire estate.

With a short glance towards the oblivious nation lying helplessly in his arms, he moved to the top of the bed, heaving to some extent with the effort, which was not great, as he _had_ , after all, been trained by some of the greatest men in the Earth's history, whereas Austria made played some music and made cake, the only recently nonfatal air supply, and his yet to be completed adjustment to moving freely. He moved the nobleman over as to look upon his face, which at the moment was still covered by his unexpectedly strong arms. It was so off putting to have his rival like this. Not only scared half to death, but shaped so unnaturally, his knees brought up almost to his chin and his back hunched enough to resemble Quasimodo, his shoulders level to his distinctive mole so that his forearms stretched past the length of his head and his fists balled grabbed at his own strands of hair.

At first there was no action. Just … observing. Taking in the hints of a face twisted in trauma, taking in how much different everything seemed, like time stood still just for the two of them. Like there was something there going unrealized that the world would put all else at halt until it became identified. Even the infuriated thunder seemed muffled. The only problem was he was lacking in even the most obscure hint as to how he could.

If he made even the most trivial mistake, everything could be shattered and blown away in the wind like the first fallen blossoms of Autumn. That was always how it was with Austria, with Roderich. Everything was so fragile. Every word, every movement, every step, every decision, every single action was either the beginning of a new spectrum or the demolition of a world. That was just how it was and no one could change that. There were so many that had tried, though. Ludwig, out of pure frustration, Antonio, to try to form a bridge between his companion and his intimate companion, his _soulmate_ , he had claimed, though it was always evident what a lie that was, it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce who his heart truly resided with, Elizabeta, just to finally cease the neverending wars, Feliciano, just because he couldn't understand enough to know beyond his innocence. They learned. They all soon learned the truth. They all eventually went out to tell tales of the infinite hatred between Gilbert Beilschmidt and Roderich Edelstein.

But Prussia didn't hate Austria. No, not really. Perhaps at one time he came close, when his people seemed to thrive on his bloodlust and sadism, but it was more, how should he put it? It was more political differences than anything else. There was aggravation, a _lot_ of aggravation, and they fought. But why wouldn't they? They didn't fight each other because they hated each other, no, there was always some level of mutual respect between the nations, though the amount of this respect varied greatly throughout the years.

There would never be a time when he could earnestly denounce his love of warfare, it sent passion pulsing through his blood and made his limbs advance on pure adrenaline. And he loved fighting with Austria with a greater zeal than he could perhaps ever describe.

Try as he may, he could never understand why. Every time they fought, it wasn't a hunt for flesh like it was with most everyone else. Fighting with Austria was special. Fighting with Austria _meant_ something. Every time they fought, he got so exhilarated. When he stood over his broken body, taking in shallow breaths, his blood pulsed with adrenaline at the idea of Austria acknowledging that he was more than a nation and more than anyone else he would ever meet.

But _why_ was that? Why did he get so irate when Austria wouldn't take care of himself? Why did his stomach coil in ropes whenever Hungary spent time with her ex-husband or when Spain verbally relived the beauty of their wedding ceremony? Why did he follow him home? Why did he get inexplicable urges to show how great he was whenever the man was in the room? Why did he need him so much? Why was the very first thought when he did anything questioning what Austria would think? Why was he so repelled from him and yet so drawn to him? Why did all the rules stop applying when it was just the two of them? Why did seeing him like this compel him to find a way to vanquish the storm with such a fury? Why _didn't_ he hate him? There was so much to hate, his advantageous priority on his music, his tendency to dress like a Victorian model, his attitude, his voice, his _everything_ , and yet all of that was what he lived for. For Austria. And he knew not why.

Of course, it was convivial being Austria's rival, _the_ rival of Austria. The only one. There were imbeciles the he never really got along with, but they weren't rivals. That was only Prussia. He was the only one who deserved to compete with him. He was the only one good enough for him to recognize as a challenge.

His brain writhed with the complexity of all that was Austria and Prussia, Roderich and Gilbert, water and oil, the forgotten soldiers of the past. He just didn't understand it. Any of it. He _couldn't_ understand any of it. It was so difficult to understand, but living it was so simple. It was so confusing and belittling the way it always felt like the answer was being purposely dangled just inches away from their faces but both were too stupid to even reach in the right direction. They should have hated each other. Prussia should have hated Austria, but in a way it was almost like they lived off of each other more than anything else, as though the battlefield where they raged wars was some kind of sick therapy, the only one that cleanse their minds of the stress and horrors that plagued them.

And that made no sense.

But that was how they ended up there. That was how the former Kingdom of Prussia ended up with one hand supporting Austria's neck and the other close to his knee, though more on the upper end of his thigh, as he wasn't in a great position for that to work, cradling him like a newborn child. ' _Almost like a bride.'_ He thought before banishing the very whims of such an idea to the far corners of his mind, where thoughts emerged from only on very rare occasion.

He lifted his right hand from its position on Austria's thigh, adjusting it so that it now rested on top of one of Austria's. His fingers slowly intertwined with those of the hand below his, beginning to thread them out of the sea of luscious chocolate. They came with more difficulty than expected. The hand jerked with the contact, but then it and its brother only drowned farther into the their own grip, sealing it with steely strength not suited for a musician. Every time he managed to pry a finger off, it burrowed back into its hibernation, undoing his work and forcing the process to be done over again. At some point or another, he began holding each finger he tore off and using his own to wriggle the rest out. Once they were in his hand, they would struggle uselessly for some seconds, then lie limp in his palm, like fallen warriors, defeated in their cause, lying so still it was straining to believe how strong they had been.

He lead the first hand away, running his fingers over it like water over a cascade. His eyes were drawn to it, reminded vaguely of the countless stories told to him where this moment was indescribably significant. Now that he was living through those many words, it seemed so different and so similar to how he had imagined it. Meaningful, yes, but merely a stepping stone to something greater, something divulging. He turned it over a few times, adjusting his hold on it in various ways before deciding on one.

With a grunt, he exchanged his hand for his knee as an estranged support beam of sorts, assuming again the role of coaxing away the forefinger first, then the thumb, followed by the middle finger, the ring finger, and finally the baby. Unlike the previous attempt however, the latter seemed to trigger something in Austria. His face, crumpled in such a way that 'pain' was the only appropriate way to phrase his expression, began to shift. His eyes, clenched shut, gradually fluttered open, enlarging as though he had just come to the realization that another being had become present.

Albeit, the storm was very large and clearly frightening, but Prussia hadn't expected it to consume Austria's mind so much as to destroy his awareness of his own senses. Had the storm actually been enough to blind him to the arrival of the man who had once placed his people's well being in jeopardy by doing little more than existing? Exactly how scared was he to be in that state?

His eyes radiated their violet hue, even in the scarce lighting, as well as all the emotions of his mind. Bewilderment was the first, though it might have been more accurate to say astonishment. Behind that, though not so much of an emotion as simply an abstract concept, was a wall of defensive pride. After that came confusion, but it came differently from the first. The first was questioning what Prussia was doing in an unkempt bedroom in the far corner of his house, whereas the second was instead questioning ' _What am_ I _doing? How should I feel about this?_ ' But neither one did more than nothing to hide the tidal wave of terror lying just behind.

His eyes were undeniably shining with fear, more of it than Prussia had ever cared to see, lest it be at his own hands, though his days of longing for the man's suffering were long over. Where they would become violet beacons to any room during any normal situation, they were dulled to a dark byzantium. However, the most easily recognizable feature to untrained eyes was by far the slick layer of liquid coating them.

That prospect was terrifying in itself. To be completely honest, he'd never seen Austria come even close to crying before, not even when his country was in shambles, his dignity destroyed, and his body lying broken and bloodied on the cold streets, and, as much of a shock as it might have came, he certainly didn't want to. Austria had always insisted that crying was weak and undignified, not that he had ever ridiculed anyone else for doing so, only belittled himself at such prospects, so he never did, or, at least, never when others were near enough to witness him performing what he believed to be such unacceptable actions.

"Gilbert?" Austria's voice was cracked and sounded strained, as though the struggle to not give into a cascade of tears was beyond overwhelming. He stared at his elder for a few torturous moments, all the time it took for his pride to register again in his mind. Without waiting for any sort of response from the nation holding him, he shoved his head away, all at once realizing his burning desire to look at anything but Prussia. The floor had never once in his entire lifespan been so intriguing. His cheeks burned in humiliation, providing another obstacle to stay clear of in his field of vision.

He mentally slammed his heel into himself. Not only had he let himself be caught at his lowest, but he had let himself be held like some kind of helpless kitten, and by _Prussia_ , of all people. How had he let this happen? Was there nothing he could have done to lure Prussia away from where he was, or even just realize that someone else was inside his house? He bit back an impressive groan. There was no way to undo what had been done by the very laws of time itself, despite whatever garbage England spewed constantly. He could feel Prussia's crimson eyes burning into him like an ignited flame, and wishing it wasn't a cold reality could not change that. With a swallowed lump, the battle to save his dignity from the disgrace of weeping lost more of what little hope it still had. ' _Why did it have to be Gilbert?_ '

Though it may have been something he would have gleefully relished in years ago, the sight of his Austrian so upset and utterly abashed made Prussia's heart ache. One hand relieved its hold on Austria's and reached for the pale face. His fingers brushed slightly across his smooth skin, a shiver pouring down his spine. He took a humble breath in at the sensation of living flesh against his own.

It didn't last long, however, as Austria thrust his head farther away almost as soon as Prussia made contact with his face. Face scarlet and pride wounded, he did not hold even that position much longer. The hand only just released from captivity found its way to the chest of the other, using its limited ability to propel himself away from the former soldier, albeit a severely limited distance.

Perhaps Austria would have found a way to escape, freely allowing the moment and any discoveries it could have brought to dissolve into the sandstorm of dust around them. Yes, perhaps he would have, had the room not been at that moment illuminated with chaotic electricity that struck through the air. Instead, he shrieked at such a volume most would have thought impossible from such a conceited aristocrat and flew back to Prussia without a second's hesitation.

His chest rose and fell excessively at a rapid rate, his entire body trembling fiercely. The hands that only minutes ago protected his head like no hired security ever could now rattled against his chest, clenched into tight fists.

Prussia sent the Austrian a sympathetic, vaguely shocked, look. Then, reaffirming his hold on the man, the difference being this time it was tighter, and he held Austria quite closer to his own chest.

"Hey, c'mere, Roddy." Prussia whispered, his voice caring as a moonlit sky, decorated with glowing stars and milky patterns that guided the lost on their way. The difference between the Austrian from moments earlier and the Austrian then was jaw droppingly immense. He continued to keep his head pointing downwards, but had otherwise given up resisting completely, leaning fully against Prussia's chest for support. Violent shaking plagued his entire body as if he were a leaf being torn apart by the raging wind. He clenched Prussia's shirt like it was a lifeline, burrowing his face into its protection as well.

At first, Prussia had absolutely no clue what to do. No one came to him for comfort. Germany had begun refraining from doing so centuries ago. On top of that, it was _Austria_. How was he supposed to know what to do for him? Even Hungary admitted to never having seen him truly upset.

So he just sat there, running his fingers through Austria's hair.

After a number of minutes, he sat him down, not necessarily letting go of him, it merely seemed more comfortable for the aristocrat. He lay one hand on Austria's back, rubbing patterns in with his thumb, and the other just kept streaming through his hair, only stopping once.

That was when he could feel water sliding onto his chest. He froze, unmoving and completely still, his face a reflection of his only thought, which was not any complete thought, nor was it anything that could ever truly have its feeling described by words. It was just shock. Only complete and utter astonishment. And he had no idea what to do because Austria was crying.

 _Austria_ was _crying_.

Silently, in the beginning. Then there was an array of sniffles and heartbroken whimpers that clawed at Prussia's heart like a rabid animal. When they came, he could think, and, more importantly, move again. The patterns began again and so did his trailing through those wavy, chocolate strands of hair, always starting from the base of the neck and hiking upwards.

"Shh," He murmured, pushing his head downward enough that the tip of his nose almost grazed Austria's hair. "Come on, the awesome me has you. You don't have to cry."

Apparently he did, because that effectively made him sob convulsively. Which in turn caused Prussia to bite his lip unconfidently. This wasn't exactly his area. He wanted to help, but he didn't know how. If he had to explain it, he was more like salt to a wound than the water that cleans it. "Hey . . ." He tried uselessly.

Austria gulped a rather monstrous mouthful of air, and tried to respond, but all that resulted was an ineligible wreck of choked blubbering. Then he proceeded to collapse back into a fit of weeping. Thunder roared around them like a pride of malicious lions, driving him farther into the protective arms of the man who offered him comfort.

Prussia swallowed uncomfortably, nonverbally going over an imaginary list of options. There were many. Was anything he could do really going to help or would it just be as insignificant as the last, all providing as little as a war to a severe economic crash? But would not doing anything have the same effect? Either way, he knew better than to think he was leaving. "Shh, hey," He began again. "You're okay."

For almost half an hour they continued this. Austria gradually grew calmer, not entirely, as there were still tears crashing down his cheeks, but not as many nor as violently. For how little he showed emotion excluding his ever present aggravation, witnessing him weep for such a drawn out period of time was like landing a foot across the border of an all too foreign country. At some point or another, Prussia had begun humming, and as soon as he had, Austria grew silent. He had stopped moving, not making a sound, like a deer trapped in the glare of headlights, only listening.

The name of the composition he was repeating had almost him, and the only reason it did not was due to how many times Austria had repeated it. " _It's Mozart's Mass Number 17 for Soloists, Chorus, and Orchestra, 'the Great Mass,' in C Minor."_ He would state so matter-of-a-factly. There really was very little that Austria loved beyond music, and that was on perfect display. As soon as the tune came from the Prussian's pressed lips, he visibly relaxed, slowly breathing in the scent of his chest.

Prussia transferred his face's positioning to just next to Austria's ear, humming the composition at such an intimate distance. The music challenged the raging war of elements outside, like morphine to wounding, and the odds were in its favor. The rapid fall of salty water progressively fell over the course of the melody, relaxing Prussia's own body and extorting a harmonious grin out of him. The sound replacing the notes of instruments and vocals of a chorus swam through the air surrounding the two of them, entering their blood as they breathed it in, lavishing in its feeling of contentment. It wasn't even meant to play on as long as Prussia was drawing it out, but he knew Austria needed those extra few minutes, so he continued the extravagant creation of Mozart until he wasn't sure how to extend the music any further.

When the hummed composition's final notes faded into the darkness surrounding their merged figures, there was an odd sense of calm among the storm. No words were spoken between them, as nothing was needed to be said that both were not already made aware of by just remaining there. The only moisture left was what was left over on Prussia's shirt and the still drying tear tracks on Austria's face, which he had, at some point or another, lifted to rest just above the collarbone of his rival.

'Rival.' That word was so interesting. For so many, it meant hatred. It meant competition. It meant aggression. But for Prussia, it meant 'unspoken connection'. To be each other's rivals meant to be the one who was always with the other, for better or for worse, through thick and thin, and in rain or shine. Like a corner stone. It was to be opposites so alike they couldn't stop coming back to one another. It was strange, to be the last and the only one someone would want, but he could never criticize it because Roderich was exactly the same thing to him.

With a brief smile, he shifted the musician's bangs to the side of his face, behind his ear and over the frame of his glasses. Where that hair had covered, the exposed skin was silky and alabaster, just darker than his own. His mind was all at once rid of conscious thought, driven only by unreasonable desire, seemingly unable to comprehend what he was doing. Well, unable until, that is, his lips were pressed against Austria's forehead.

His eyes widened into saucers, suspending his actions where they were, even his breathing hitching in his throat. Austria went stiff and his insides churning as what he was doing hit him like a massive truck on an unlit road. Even through his panic, he could think. ' _Just play it off. He won't think anything of it! If he asks, just blame Italy! No, say West dared you to! Right. You're awesome, but there's no way Roderich will believe that West dared me. Just don't say anything!_ ' His brain fired hastily. As nonchalantly as he could, he retreated to his earlier position, careful not to move exceedingly briskly, waiting for Austria to slap him, hop off and sprint away, shout, scoot away, or just do something to showcase his disgust and disapproval, but he didn't. Instead, he snuggled into him affectionately, all hints of shudders wiped from existence and breathing calm and even, in all ways at ease.

And suddenly, Gilbert Beilschmidt knew what he had been missing.

Translations:

Schwach - Weak

Schwächling - Weakling

Du bist ein schwächling. - You are a weakling.

Bruder - Brother

Author's note:

That one line " _Even so, half the world forgot he existed, or only nodded their heads and said "Oh, you mean Australia, right?" whenever his name came up in conversation, even when he had once been one of the greatest empires the world had ever seen, fighting vigorously beside Hungary and even Prussia on occasion._ " is largely spawned from my frustration at people aside from most of the well educated adults and Hetalians that I have met making this annoying remark. Personally, I find Austria to be one of the most beautiful countries in the world. It's culture is a credit and a treasure to our world and it's a shame that more people don't know about it. (Why not, though? It's a country. It's even in the EU.) This might just apply to the people I've run into, though. I don't know about the schools you go to, but mine does _not_ , by any means, have an even halfway decent geography system. We're not even taught what the continents are. If I didn't do this kind of work on my own, I would be thoroughly screwed over as soon as highschool and college rolled around. It's not by any means at Canada's level, (Now that I think about it, at least the people I've met have all been aware of Canada's existence, though that's not the point. APH Canada.) but I've run into too many people who've forgotten or were never aware of its existence and I think it deserves to be acknowledged just as much as any other country. I'm sure that there are many people who are well educated and might get horribly offended mad at me for suggesting this, and I'm sorry, that's great that you , but I wish that more people were able to be educated as well as you since Austria really is a jewel.

Also, quercus cerris is a type of wood also known as Austrian oak, just in case you didn't know. I didn't. I had to research wood. Not to mention trunks. Forgive me if my information is inaccurate and people did _not_ , in fact, ever make trunks out of this particular wood.

One more thing before I shut up, I didn't do an extraordinary amount of research of astraphobia, (Astraphobia is the fear of thunder and lightning) so if I wrote Austria horribly in that area, I am very sorry.

All in all, sorry for that needlessly long explanation of a few sentences. I'll cut right to the chase. Like I said earlier, thank you very much for reading, I appreciate it very much, and please leave me some constructive criticism if you can.

Once again, thank you very much.

~Aleberle~


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